Which world do you represent? Nightingale’s embowered
space where varied scent of buds and leaves rises in darkness
from loamy earth or the one where youth grows pale, etc.?
Fling your coins on the counter – listen as they clatter
and spin into brilliant lozenges of sound. Whose song
tears into your ears? Mad fiddler in the dusty square, buttocks
and legs and beer, or again and again, the arias of easeful death?
If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would like to hear from you.